Ain't Talkin'

A town appeared over the next rise. Savage buildings of wood and brick. A single plume of smoke rose from within four brick walls with no roof. The town was little more than a crossroads with a single stoplight still hanging queerly from a line.

“Roche? Where are we?”

“Dead town. Never seen it before.”

“Never?”

“Kid, I ain’t been to every single place in every plane for the last hundred years. Places change, and po-dunk places like this don’t always make an impression. Maybe I been here. Don’t think so though. Take this all the same.” Roche handed Alex Markus Jex’s old .45 and slipped off the safety. “Little lighter use than that A-Mat you’re growing so fond of. And this one won’t break your shoulder.”

“Thanks.” Markus looked down at the handgun like it was an alien technology.

“Point and shoot, kid. The barrel is like your pointer finger, your pointer finger that’s gonna spew some lead and kill a guy.”

“Probably the most helpful and insightful thing you’ve said to me yet.” Markus stuffed the gun in the waistband of his trousers and soldiered on.

By the time they’d crossed into the town Roche said what he’d said while they were in the white. “Get on the horse. I say the word you kick her and head north.”

“North, right.” Markus hopped onto Lucky’s back with a swing of a leg.

“If it gets dark you know which one the North Star is?”

“Yes, Roche.”

“Some folks don’t. Just keep heading that way and I’ll find you if we get separated.” Bootheels clicked on the appearing pavement, until just now hidden with dust and blown sand.

“Who do you suppose is stoking the flames, as it were, over there?” Markus pointed to the brick walls where the smoke rose.

“Don’t point! If they’re watching they’ll know we spotted them.”

“So?”

“Better to let them think we’re just wastelanders passing through who didn’t notice them, not highwaymen interested in taking whatever nothing they happen to have.”

“Ah. So I suppose heading over, knocking on the door and saying ‘Hey, we don’t actually want to kill you and take your things’ is sort of out of the question?”

“Yep. Keep your head down, then.”

They’d nearly passed the four brick walls with the interior campfire and reached the dingy stoplight when Roche heard the unmistakable cracking of guns being loaded and rounds being chambered.

He was almost surprised when Corporation soldiers stepped out from behind corners and walls and leaned up from laying in ditches along the road.

A score or more men in black and navy fatigues with automatic weapons and body armor, helmets, glasses and masks shouting orders. Drop your weapons, get off the horse, down on the ground, hands in the air. Too many contradicting orders, one couldn’t keep track. Roche did what he did best. Hands in his pockets on the handles of his Ruger’s and smoke cocked in the corner of his mouth he simply said; “Hello there, chaps.” and opened fire.